Evgir Unslaad
by Zeratide
Summary: It is 90 years since Alduin's doom, and it is 50 since the Dragonborn disappeared. When three poor and hungry thieves, believing him to be long dead, attempt to rob Heljarchen Hall, they set in motion a chain of events that will shake Tamriel to the core. Rated M for violence, language, adult content, etc. No pairing as of this time.
1. Chapter 1

The place was quiet and calm as the three thieves approached it. No light came from the windows, no animals sounded or moaned as they slept. This was hardly a surprise; Heljarchen Hall had been abandoned for almost fifty years. "Are you sure it's safe?" a woman's voice asked quietly.

"Relax, Arya," one of her companions said, his voice filled with the Khajit purr. "The Dragonborn is long since dead by now, and no one has lived here since."

"How can you be sure, J'tharr?" she asked, tugging at the full-body set of ragged fur armor she wore. "What if he's still alive? The draugr were supposed to be dead, but they walk the halls of their crypts."

"The Dragonborn was a Khajit. He would not have been subjected to your Nordic burial methods. Furthermore, he did not betray the Nine. Finally, he was almost seventy when he disappeared from every record. Even if he was not dead when he disappeared, he would be almost a hundred and twenty now, and not even Tiber Septim lived that long. If you want to leave, then do so, but Khajit knows that we all need the money. Now, just be quiet." Arya continued to glance nervously at everything around her, but she obeyed. "Marcus, if you would please."

The stocky Imperial in question strode forward, reasonably quietly for a man of his side, and began working on the lock. "Damn," he muttered as he broke his pick. He tried another, and another, cursing in frustration as he went through pick after pick. Finally, he was on his last pick, and with one more effort, his curses blew into a full-blown tirade when that broke as well. "It can't be picked," he swore vehemently. "Whatever the Dragonborn did, he either made an uncrackable lock or he had the money to buy one." He slammed his fist into the door, and with a thunderous creak bespeaking years of neglect, it slowly opened.

"Well, I suppose that works," Arya said nervously, moving forward. Her vision adjusted rapidly to the darkness, showing the outlines of numerous barrels, tables, chests, cupboards, and other pieces of furniture leading to the main hall. Her skilled eyes sought out any minute signs of traps, both magical and mundane, and, finding none, she gestured the others in. The moment the doors closed, the wall sconces flared with light, causing all three to jump.

"It's just a lingering spell," J'tharr said, stepping closer to the fixtures. "It's like the lights at the College of Winterhold, how they grow bright whenever a living being steps near them. Remember, he had achieved the title of Arch-Mage." The others seemed unconvinced, but J'tharr had the magical and historical knowledge in their group, so they went with his word. "This must be the house that he dedicated to the Pursuits of Knowledge," he muttered as he strode into the main hall. "The stories said that the Dragonborn had left three homesteads to mark Skyrim; one was dedicated to the Pursuits of Knowledge, one to the Pursuits of the Warrior, and one to the Pursuits of the Soul."

"And what were the Pursuits of the Soul?" Arya asked, gazing at the old, dust-covered furniture.

"History seems frustratingly silent on that," J'tharr replied, running a hand across the large table in the center of the room. "One would guess that he might have reared his family there."

"He had family?" Marcus said, swiftly turning to face J'tharr.

"Well, it doesn't seem that they were of his blood. This one managed to trace adoption records in Whiterun for a young orphan named Lucia, and records in Riften's orphanage for a girl named Runa. The Dragonborn did not marry a Khajit, and to the best of this one's knowledge, it is not possible for Man and Man-Beast to breed."

"Well, if he has no family then I suppose that whatever he's got here is ripe for the taking," Marcus replied. Cracking open a door, he whistled as he took a look inside. "Looks like a hard-core Enchanter's setup."

Arya quietly observed her companions as they perused through the contents of the tower, evaluating the worth of what they found. When she was sure they had completely forgotten her, she slipped out of the tower, sneaking through the upper floor of the main hall. The beds were covered in dust, great clouds of the substance puffing up when she tossed her hood onto one, shaking out her crimson hair. A quick run of the hall revealed no more than the objects they had already found. Without any hesitance, she quickly snuck downstairs, pulled open the trap door to the cellar, and dove down.

She was instantly assaulted with the scent of air that had been trapped when it was already stale. She coughed, pulling a rag from her pouch and holding it over her mouth. A heavy darkness permeated the room, one that even her vision could not permeate. Reaching into her nearly non-existent spell base, she cast one of the only two spells she knew: Candlelight.

The sudden shift was almost painful, but within a few moments her eyes had adjusted and the items in the room were cast into hyper-detail. She paused as she saw an enormous stone structure, before she caught sight of the nine shrines resting upon it. "I never would have guessed that he was the religious type," she murmured, gently touching each individual shrine, lingering for a moment longer on the shrine to Talos. Her eyes skimmed over the two mannequins, one dressed in common mage clothing and the other dressed in a black armor with a cape that she had never before seen. She moved into the next room, the light spilling onto the structures within, and she quietly ran a hand over the forge, the heat long since died out, and the ashes as cold as the rest of Skyrim. Her eyes alit upon the numerous safes lining the walls, and she instantly pressed an ear against one, rapping lightly with a knuckle. There was little sound, meaning that the safe was almost completely full, and her lock picks were out in a heartbeat.

"Trying to sneak a little bit extra?" Marcus' voice said behind her, and she jumped, caught off guard. "Well, I suppose I won't tell J'tharr," he said, leaning against the frame of the opening. "After all, we all need a little something, don't we?"

"What do you want, Marcus?" she asked, crossing her arms. This was not her first time dealing with the Imperial, and she had often found that he was just as likely to blackmail you as to work with you.

"Your armor on the floor," he said, shrugging. "You bent over that forge. Me behind you, taking you like a bitch."

"Like that'll ever happen," she said, turning back to the safes. "Go find some other place to stick your cock." Even with all of her skills, she doubted she could have moved as fast as he did that instant, grabbing her and twisting her around. His strong hands grabbed ahold of her fur jerkin, tearing it completely down the front and revealing her generous breasts. She lashed out with her lock picking knife, but he grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully before he set her down in the ashes, holding her down with the sheer size and weight of his body as he unlaced his breeches. "Get off of me!" she screamed, thrashing as much as she could, even screaming for help from J'tharr, but no one heard her. She squeezed her legs together as tightly as she could, but he forced them open, moving forward until she felt him press against her. Tears poured from the corners of her eyes as he tore her cloth undergarments, and she clenched her eyes shut, hoping to try and block it out.

A gurgling sound emanated from Marcus, and her eyes opened to see him slump beside her, his throat opened from ear to ear and blood pouring out in sheets. She scrabbled away from him, clutching at the remains of her clothes, before she turned to thank J'tharr for his timely intervention.

Her blood chilled when she saw an armored void.

What she had thought to be a mannequin reached down, gently moving her arms away from her body, his fingers probing her skin. She flinched as he pressed hard on a spot that was already beginning to show a nasty bruise, and his left hand glowed with an amber light for a moment. Instantly the pain eased, the swelling decreasing, and the light disappeared. There was a slight snick as his dagger was returned to his belt, and he reached up toward his neck, unfastening his cape and draping it over her now nude form.

The shape lifted her carefully out of the dead forge, carrying her to the ladder and making a slight motion with his hand. The ladder shifted into a staircase, the trap door opening. "How…?" she murmured weakly.

"Heljarchen Hall holds no secrets for those who know it well," the figure said, and in his voice she heard the slight drawl of the Khajit. Her suspicions were confirmed when, once they were out of the cellar, he closed the trap door with his tail.

"Why did you save me?" she asked as he carried her up the stairs toward the beds.

"Because it was right," he purred, "and because you remind me of a long-dead Huntress."

"Aela," she murmured as he set her down on a large double-bed, the dust having mysteriously vanished. "When my ma was drunk, she used to scream how we deserved better than a hunter's life, how we were the descendants of Aela the Huntress… Never actually believed her…" Moments later, she was asleep, curled up in the expanse of his cloak.

* * *

Sim'baja pulled off the hood, shaking out his mane for the first time in years. Picking up a silver platter next to the bed, he brushed off the dust of fifty years and looked at his reflection. The three scars from the lion's claws running across the bridge of his nose looked slightly faded, though they had widened somewhat; the jagged and angular tiger-stripe war paint he had occasionally applied was long gone; his mane and ringed mustache were streaked with gray, but still mostly black, and still thick, and still the same length as it had always been; finally, his eyes seemed almost haunted, the depths of them speaking years of experiences.

He heard the sudden crackle of electricity, and turned, seeing a young Khajit standing with a charged spell, observing him quietly. "You can try," he said, "but it won't work well against the Arch-Mage of Winterhold."

"So you _are_ the Dragonborn," the Khajit murmured, canceling the spell. "You're supposed to be long dead."

"Dragons were supposed to be a legend, the Stormcloaks were supposed to be victorious, and the Thieves Guild was supposed to be gone." Sim'baja set the platter down, returning to his vigil over the young woman.

"This one's name is J'tharr," the Khajit said. "You knew his grandfather, J'zargo." Sim'baja cast him a sideways glance, nodding before he looked back. "Does Arya fascinate you that much?"

"Your companion tried to rape her," Sim'baja said matter-of-factly. "He's lying dead in the ashes of my forge." J'tharr remained expressionless, obviously uncaring of the man's fate, and Sim'baja cast him another glance. "What is your purpose here?"

"We thought the house was long abandoned, so we decided that our sheer needs would justify an incursion into this place and the taking of what we could to survive. Evidently, Markus wanted more." Sim'baja nodded, reaching into his pocket and tossing J'tharr five flawless diamonds. "Thank you," J'tharr said, his voice barely remaining calm as his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "This one hopes you do not mind, but he came across numerous spell tomes in your library, and he read several of them."

"Khajit already knew the spells," Sim'baja replied. "This one suffers no loss there." J'tharr nodded, before taking a seat.

"This one's grandfather used to tell numerous tales of adventures with you. Once you disappeared, he spent more than a year searching for you. J'zargo claimed you were his greatest friend."

"How did he die?"

"Age," J'tharr replied. "You are roughly one hundred and twenty years old, though you look forty. Every non-Mer you knew is dead, dying, or undead. If you venture out, you may meet some of their descendants, however."

"It is late," Sim'baja said, changing the subject. "If you wish to stay, find a bed. If your talent with magic is anything like your grandfather's, this one will give you what you need to head for the College in the morning." J'tharr bowed, leaving the room, and Sim'baja leaned back in his chair, falling asleep moments later to old memories.

* * *

_Sim'baja worked hard to try and stifle his grunts and groans as he thrust into the woman beneath him, the bed creaking quietly with their movements. Sun poured in through the windows, giving a lovely view of the mountains surrounding Whiterun a distance off, but he and the woman did not care. They were still mostly clothed; he had only undone his trousers enough to pull himself out, and her underwear hung off one ankle, her breasts pulled up and out of the neckline of her shirt._

"_Papa?" Lucia's voice sounded on the other side of the door._

"_Papa is a little busy at the moment!" he managed to shout out, his voice wavering. "Papa thought that Lydia had taken you to the market!" His voice rose on the second sentence, loud enough for Lydia to hear, and he would have sworn his sensitive ears heard a slight snicker._

"_Almost there…" his partner whispered, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist. "Just a few more moments."_

"_Can we go and visit Uncle Farkas and Uncle Vilkas? Pleeeeeaaaassssseeeee?" Runa asked, her voice taking on the tone she always used when trying to appeal to Sim'baja's soft spot._

"_Yes!" he managed to croak out, feeling his own end coming. "Go ahead, go now!" Footsteps pounded down the staircase of Breezehome, and the door opened and shut. With an animalistic roar, he sprayed deep inside his partner's womb, the woman bucking with her own end, before they both flopped onto the bed, utterly spent._

"_Hmm, that was wonderful," Saadia said, sitting up after a few minutes and fixing her clothes. "Maybe next time I should bring along Olfina. If you ask me, that girl needs to get a cock in her. Then you'll be able to say you've fucked two women of high status." Sim'baja gave a grunt, closing his eyes as she left._

If only she knew…

* * *

As she awoke, Arya felt warmer than she had felt for many weeks. Without opening her eyes, she could feel that she was in a large, comfy bed, and wrapped up in soft, warm blankets. She nuzzled further into the pillow, squinting her eyes as a beam of sunlight fell across her face, before she finally relented and opened them. The room was empty, the cloak was gone, the blankets having taken its place, and on the chair across from the bed was a backpack that she did not recall seeing the night before, with a note pinned to the front. She rose from the bed, holding her shredded tunic in place, before reading the note.

_Arya,_

_Your companion, J'tharr, left earlier for Winterhold. Your rescuer left for his own reasons. You are free to choose your own path as well. Within this backpack is two hundred and fifty Septims, three apples, a wheel of Eidar cheese, three handfuls of assorted jewels, one handful of flawless diamonds, and an enchanted ring. Khajit wishes to speak with you at a later date, so if you wear the ring, he will be able to find you. Take whatever clothes you need from the wardrobe. With the gold in the bag, you should be able to stay at an inn for a good while. There are one or two weapons in the cellar, but no armor. IF YOU GO INTO THE SAFES, REFRAIN FROM OPENING THE ONE WITH A DOZEN RUNES CARVED INTO ITS DOOR. This safe contains dark artifacts, certain books Khajit has sealed away to prevent Hermaeus Mora from achieving power. Khajit would be very sad if you were to die._

_Your ally,_

_Sim'baja_

Arya opened the bag, amazed to find that with the items he had given her she had more of value than she had in her entire childhood. She quickly dove into the wardrobe, finding a beautiful set of fine clothes that she put on, before fishing out a fine hat, fine boots, and one of three pairs of soft leather gloves. To her amazement, the clothes actually fit her; given her large bust, she often had difficulty finding things that fit her that she herself had not made. _Well, congratulations on your wife, _she thought, snickering as her mind switched to dirty thoughts. Deciding that she didn't need to grab any weapon besides the dagger that was on the shelf above the bed, she set out for Whiterun.

* * *

Erandur made a slight sound as he moved to greet the figure before him. It wasn't a groan of pain or sigh; it was simply a sound that one of his advanced age made when they moved. It was almost like a heavy breath, but it was not of exertion. "How may I assist you, my son?" he asked.

The Khajit was dressed in simple religious garb, wearing a robe that almost matched Erandur's. His fur was a whitish-gray color that was similar to a cold stone in the harsh landscape. His long hair white reached far below the expanse of his hood, two shorter strands falling around his shoulder out the front. Unremarkable black eyes gazed kindly at the old elf.

"This one is new to Skyrim, and was hoping that you could be of assistance," he replied, sitting in one of the numerous benches that Erandur had refurbished in the old ruin above Dawnstar. "You see, Khajit is studying the Dragonborn. There are few left alive now who knew him well, and they are all Mer or Undead. This one had heard that you were a friend of his?"

Erandur remained quiet for a few moments, his eyes lost in one of the memories that the elderly were prone to fall into, before he spoke. "I do not know if ever I could have been called such. You see, the Dragonborn affected many lives; if one was not one of his greatest friends, one simply could never know if they had affected his in return. What I can confirm is that he requested my presence on a number of different ventures, and that I went with him when it was both within my power, and my privilege, to do so."

"Do you know if he had family?"

"I believe that he had adopted two young orphans, and that he had a wife. I cannot recall the name of any of these people, however. You must forgive me; my mind is not what it once was." The Khajit gave him a kind look, gently gesturing for him to go on. "Well, I am given to understand that one of his 'daughters' passed some thirteen winters ago. She lived a full life, if the stories are to be believed; she had children of her own, and grandchildren. In her youth she was an adventurer like he was, and wrote a series of stories for her children that eventually were published throughout Tamriel. Wait! A name returns to me. That child was named Runa."

"And what of the other child?"

"Alas, that tale is more fraught with sorrow. She buried two husbands and three of her four children, and the one that survived died in war shortly after fathering her only grandchild. The granddaughter was charged with theft in several of the holds, and hid away here in Dawnstar for a number of years. When she was caught at last, she had just enough to pay her bounty. Brought to the brink of poverty, the woman wound up selling the only thing left to her; she whored herself to whatever sailors would call here. She died last winter from a resulting disease; I performed the rights myself. The grandmother is now past ninety winters, and her mind is nearly gone. She lives in her childhood haunt of Breezehome still, I believe. If there is anything left in that shell, she may be able to give you more information than I, but do not expect much."

"Thank you for your time," the Khajit replied, rising from the bench. "May your roads lead you through warm sands." Erandur smiled, watching as the Khajit left, and once the door was closed, the Khajit pulled back the hood, removing the wig before also removing the simple spell he had created to change eye color. A quick snow-scrub had the dye washed from his head and hands, the only things that were visible and therefore the only things dyed, and Sim'baja stood where a stranger had been. "Onto to Whiterun," he murmured.

* * *

Well, hope you guys have enjoyed the first chapter! Review and let me know how I did.

-Zeratide, out.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya sat in the Bannered Mare, listening to the chatter and merrymaking of the tavern's patrons. Her clothes rested comfortably against her skin, moreso than she ever would have guessed, and luckily enough she didn't elicit too many looks. There were two sellswords dicing in a corner, a Battle-Born and Greymane cracking jokes with a barmaid, and the owner, a young man named Yoren spinning bottles to and fro as he filled mugs of mead. "Arya, child," a voice behind her said, and she turned to see a monk with his face indistinguishable beneath the shadows of his hood. "Walk with an old monk."

The monk rose, striding out, and as she followed him she noted the swinging tail, realizing that it was her rescuer, he who had revealed himself to be Sim'baja, the Dragonborn. She followed him as he strolled through the streets aimlessly, his eyes seeing past the walls and the buildings and the mountains. "When you were robbing Khajit's Hall, J'tharr told you about this one's family. Almost all of them are gone; a daughter this one adopted lives in this very city, though her life is leaving her quickly. When she passes, there will be none left that this one can call family. Breezehome will pass back to the Jarl, and someone will take it and make it their own, leaving untold years of history to fall away forgotten." His voice sounded sad beyond measure, and Arya found her own eyes tearing up.

"You saved me, fed me, clothed me, made me richer than I've ever been. I owe you a debt. Ask what you would have of me, and I will give it to you." Even as the words left her lips, she thought of the stories about his youth in Skyrim, of the women who had claimed to have lain with him. _I hope he does not ask that of me._

"Khajit would name you daughter; heir to his fortune, his titles, his lands. You would become a woman of renown, one that nobles and royals would court. If you wished for skill in blade or bow this one can train you to be more deadly than any warrior or assassin. With his smithing skill, Khajit could craft you armor of the finest make, jewelry more glamorous than you have ever seen, and he can wrought enchantments upon them that will make you just shy of immortal. Ask what you would, and it will be yours." Arya was speechless for a length of time, before she finally responded.

"I… I do not have what most would consider a father. My mother was the offspring of Aela and a man she never named, and my mother fell in with a bandit clan. Eventually she had lain with every man in the group, and therefore did not know which of them my father was. They all were slain by guardsmen shortly after. My mother was spared only because she was visibly pregnant. I have struggled all my life to live in the harshness that is Skyrim. If what you say is true, than I would be your daughter until Alduin himself returns from the dead to devour the world."

Sim'baja lowered the hood, revealing his features to the cold night air. A grim smile played across his lips, but he nodded and carefully worked a ring off his finger. A strange symbol adorned the face of it, and the ring itself looked to be twists of gold and a black metal and a green _something_ that she couldn't identify. "This ring is one Khajit designed himself. You see that the face of it is the ancient Akaviri symbol for the Dragonborn. The ring itself is made of pounded gold and ebony and malachite. This is one that this one had made for his wife before her disappearance. There are no enchantments upon it; name your choices, and Khajit shall put such upon it."

"I…" Arya was speechless at the gift, holding it gently in her palm as he passed it to her, before she sank to her knees, grasping his hand and pressing it to her lips. "Your wife's jewelry, your titles and life… Why are you giving me so much?"

"I give you your inheritance. Your great-grandmother was Aela the Huntress… and Aela was my wife."

* * *

_Honeyside was quiet as they both walked in through the door, aware of the proximity of themselves next to each other. The Housecarl was staying at the Bee and Bard tonight, Sim'baja had seen to that. Aela gently gripped his arm, feeling the muscle beneath the finery he had worn to their wedding, such a contrast to the usual worn and scarred armor she had worn. She led him to the bedroom slowly, her usual feisty demeanor gone. She seemed timid, shy, and Sim'baja himself remained silent as they walked, a small grin tugging at his lips._

_The undressing was slow and clumsy; while he had worn Ancient Nord Armor briefly before, it was much harder taking it off another person than himself. Aela fumbled on the clothing he wore, and finally they stood together, with no barriers between them._

"_Are you just going to stare at me, Harbinger?" she asked, leaning slightly with a pop of her hip. Sim'baja grinned, allowing his eyes to roam over her voluptuous form for another moment, before he stepped forward, grabbing her and tossing her onto the bed. They were both Companions; gentleness was not their method. They struggled for a moment, determining who would be on top, and a few moments later Aela gave him a look. "You can be dominant now if you so choose, but you'll find that I am very skilled at… __**resisting**__ my urges," she said. Sim'baja laughed, but allowed her to roll him onto his back, climbing on top of him. She gave him a sultry look, guiding him until she was hovering just a hair's breadth above him. "Ready?"_

* * *

"Khajit was thirty-seven when your grandmother and I married. She was twenty-seven. She disappeared when she was around fifty-nine. That must have been around when your mother was conceived. Khajit was sixty-nine. Five years later, Sim'baja disappeared. It has been approximately sixty years since her disappearance. How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine," Arya replied.

"The women in your family must breed somewhat younger than most, but fairly older for bandits," he commented. "The day your mother disappeared, we were clearing the largest bandit encampment Khajit had ever come across. While Sim'baja alone slew more than fifty, many escaped, and Aela disappeared. If Khajit were to guess, she must have been captured and impregnated by one of the bandit chiefs. Afterward, who knows? Perhaps she raised your ancestor in the forest, living out the last days of her life hunting as she loved to." Sim'baja's expression fell for a few moments, and his hand crept to the ring on a chain around his neck that she hadn't seen, due to it swinging behind an unfamiliar amulet.

"What happened afterward?" Arya asked.

"For two years Khajit searched for her, but eventually knew he would have to move on, and he had other obligations. After fighting in two different wars, it was time to rest at last."

"Two wars?" Arya asked, her expression revealing her confusion.

"Yes," Sim'baja replied, equally confused. "Khajit served in the Legion during Skyrim's Civil War, and then again when the Thalmor invaded."

* * *

Sim'baja rode astride Shadowmere as he and General Tullius both crossed the field, watching as a group of riders came from the Thalmor's side as well. His eyes narrowed as he saw Elenwen at the head of the group, and he and the General reined up in the center, waiting for them to arrive. Legate Rikke rode behind them with Legate Hadvar, both holding the banners; Rikke held the banner bearing the seal of the Empire, and Hadvar the banner of their battalion, the 4th Legion.

"Elenwen," Tullius' gruff voice said in a curt semblance of a greeting as the two groups met. "When the Civil War ended and Skyrim was once more joined to the Empire, I knew that we would see battle again."

"The battle never ended," she said simply, turning in her saddle to look at Sim'baja. "Elsweyr stands with the Dominion, as it did in the time of the First. If you fight with the Empire, you will die, Dragonborn or not. Join us; fight with your people, and we will forgive your crimes in both serving the Legion, and crashing my party."

"You seem to think that this one is still a child of the sands and the jungles," Sim'baja said, his eyes hooded by his Nightingale armor, though the facial mask was down. "Khajit was born in fire and blood, in the forests of Valenwood as his father was slain to protect a family of those whose only crime was not being Altmer. Khajit was born in snow and ice as he struggled to survive the harshness of Skyrim, and rose to become its master. Khajit was born in leather and steel when he fought to protect the Empire his father served, the Empire that brought all as close to being equal as there will ever exist in life, for only in death are we truly equal. Fall back to your line Elenwen, and look for Khajit's banner; when you see it, know that your life is at its end." Without another word, he reined Shadowmere around, and rode back with his back straight and tense, anticipating the sound of an arrow coming toward it. Instead, he breathed out a sigh as he heard the others of his party fall back with him.

* * *

"That was a damn foolish thing to do," General Tullius stated when they were back in the command tent and the Legates were assembled. "That being said, we knew we were going to have to fight anyway. I applaud your words, Dragonborn; make sure they were not mere bravado."

"As is obvious," Rikke began, "our main problem is going to be dealing with the Dominion's Battle mages. Their magic will be able to cut through us like leaves before a storm."

"My College stands ready," Sim'baja said, speaking up for the first time in one of the recent meetings. The other Legates turned to look at him in surprise, though Sim'baja kept speaking, directing his words to Tullius and Rikke. "Being Archmage of Winterhold has its benefits, this one assures you. While there are some among the College that bear the Altmer blood, they recognize the threat the Dominion poses, and all have agreed to fight. The Alteration School is even now preparing spells to harden our armor, while the Restoration School is preparing wards to negate the power of the Battle mages."

"What of the Destruction School?" Hadvar asked when the Dragonborn fell silent. A frown turned the Khajit's lip, before he spoke, his voice clipped.

"Assure that no one stands in front of this Khajit and another, and you shall see."

* * *

Both Sim'baja and J'zargo roared as they cast Lightning Storm, the beams of electricity burning through everything in their path. Dozens of elves screamed in pain as their charge was ended, their bodies turning to ash and maintaining their momentum, creating gusts of ash flying in every direction at the front lines. The center of the charge paused, broke, and in an instant the Companions swept into their flank, while Legionnaires began charging in, colliding with the opposing forced in a clash of metal and magic. Sim'baja quickly blocked a shot of lightning with Spellbreaker, the Ward cracking audibly, watching as the Justiciar who cast the spell was decapitated by Farkas, Vilkas hot on his twin's heels. He saw Aela and Ria weaving between groups, making hit-and-run strikes on select targets, before moving out and firing off a few arrows. Hadvar and Rikke maintained a tight guard around Tullius, the General proving he still had skill with a blade, and after a moment Sim'baja waded in as well, opening up a large gap in the ranks with a well-timed Shout.

A warrior stepped forward dressed head to toe in Elven armor, tall even for an Altmer, and Sim'baja instinctively ducked underneath the broadsword swinging for his neck, slicing forward with a blade of new design he had created. The Dragonbone sword bit into the edge of his enemy's armor, but he turned with the strike while bringing down his arm, trapping the blade against himself while using his other arm to stab at Sim'baja. Spellbreaker came up in front of him, intercepting the point, and the force behind the strike forced the shield into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs, pulling his sword from his hand, and pushing him into the ground, though the Daedric artifact did not yield to the inferior elven weapon. Sim'baja grunted as the Altmer hammered away at his shield, each blow driving him further into the churned dirt, until Sim'baja felt the sudden shift, the feeling of his cooldown ending.

"Hun Kaal Zoor!" he Shouted, and the Altmer paused, unaware of the distortion behind him until an ethereal axe crashed down on his shoulder, bringing him to his knees. Hakon One-Eye withdrew his weapon even as the corpse fell over, and a savage grin split his face as he waded into the battle. Time flew by quickly after that; when Hakon eventually faded, Sim'baja tapped into the Void and brought forth Lucien Lachance, the ancient assassin slipping silently through the lines and cutting key throats before he was eventually banished. Blood coated his Dragonbone sword, reclaimed at an unknown point, and even Spellbreaker's light frame began to weigh heavily on his arm. At the moment where a fog of exhaustion began to slip over his mind, his sharp eyes picked out Elenwen, still astride her horse, directing shocks of lightning at anyone who came too close.

In an instant, he was charging at her, thinking how strange even as he did so that he hadn't come up with any kind of plan, had not thought of how he would bring her from her horse before her second spell would reach him before Spellbreaker's Ward recharged. If he had to put a reason to it, he would guess that the Nord lifestyle had rubbed off on him. These thoughts came flying through his mind as, indeed, Elenwen saw him, recognized him, cast a spell, shattered his Ward, and cast another spell before the Ward recharged. The lightning lifted him off his feet, sending him flying back, landing hard on an armored corpse. He shouted in pain, feeling heat radiate off of his chest and feeling the hard edges of the armor bruise his back. He gasped for air like a fish out of water, trying to regain some kind of control from his numb body as Elenwen prepared one more shock, and sent it flying at him.

Surprisingly, it was Brelyna that saved his life.

The young she-elf was in front of him in an instant, a Ward flaring up before her just in time to intercept Elenwen's lightning. It shattered with a resounding ring, and Sim'baja managed to get to his feet and pull her behind him as Elenwen shot off another bolt, Spellbreaker's Ward stopping it. Concern flitted across Elenwen's eyes as she realized that she had used up a large deal of her Magicka, and Sim'baja saw the slight glow of her Highborn power activating. In an instant, he was running, dropping Spellbreaker and his sword in his rush, running like a lion of Elsweyr. At the last possible moment he pounced, sinking his Khajit fangs into her neck as her palm crackled with electricity. Elenwen gasped, momentum pulling both her and her horse down, and her spell veering off into the sky.

Sim'baja rolled in the blood-soaked grass as he hit the ground, watching as Elenwen's horse landed on top of her, breaking her leg and pinning her down as the animal scrambled frantically, trying to get back up and injuring her further. There was a knife attached to the hip of a nearby corpse, and he drew it, quickly pouncing on top of her and slitting her throat. "I told you I would kill you," he whispered past the hot taste of blood in his mouth, and he saw her fury as the lights faded from her eyes.

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Well, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. Review, and tell me how I did.

-Zeratide, out.


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